-i-
This is bigger than a pro-con list. It's more than a battle of wits, more than a question of literary tastes, more than the sum of its parts. It's more than an "I love you," more than a kiss, more than sex, more than family. It's more than the sum of the past, present, and future, and more than a collision of worlds.
There are hearts on the line, and as she runs again, she realizes that hers isn't the only one.
The further she goes, the less she knows. Her brain erases itself, blanks out, no words. Analysis fails her; all she has is the feel of lips on hers. Whose lips? His lips. Whose lips?
I don't know anymore.
Four years ago, she threw herself against him, drawn by a magnet, buried somewhere in her chest; four years ago, she collided, wrapped herself around this reality, ran from the spectre. Three years ago, she didn't know it was the last kiss, didn't know that a continent was getting in the way, didn't see the tidal wave about to crush her; three years ago, she watched a piece of her heart pack a bag and board a bus. Two years ago, she ran to someone else, someone safe, someone undemanding of her heart; two years ago, she couldn't face being swept away and crushed… again. One year ago, she became unrecognizable, to herself, to anyone else; one year ago, she may as well have changed her name for all the good she was doing being herself.
Today, she wants to create.
Today, her lips were seared by a kiss from a man who used to be a boy that she used to kiss every day—a boy (a man, she reminds herself) she thought she had shared her last kiss with a long time ago.
Today, she snapped, woke up, and realized that there were no earth-shattering revelations, no blinding white lights, no angel choirs singing the Hallelujah Chorus.
She just woke up.
Woke up and realized that she was left with a rock the size of a grapefruit in her stomach and a boy with broken eyes in the wake of her perfume.
That nothing is as simple now as it was a few hours ago. That, "So… you here alone?" still means the same thing it did when they were sitting on the bridge, wearing tired feet and dance clothes. That, "I've got something to take care of" means the same thing as "Did you fix everything?"
She's the queen of good intentions. It wasn't supposed to end like this.
("End?" a voice within her speaks up. "That was hardly an end.")
-ii-
She opens the door and stands on the threshold until enough of the cool night air makes its way inside that the temperature changes and he looks up. Standing, staring, intense. Neither moves, neither speaks, neither blinks.
This is bigger than hello, bigger than goodbye.
Details, one by one, stand out; her eyes take him in slow motion. His gaze never wavers, and she wonders if he's doing the same thing to her, or if he's just waiting. Waiting.
A thread loose in the left side seam of his jacket, his right shoelace broken and tied back together in a frayed knot. Long narrow fingers relaxed against his thighs, the angry red of a torn hangnail on his right thumb, a tiny stain (so small as to be nearly imperceptible, except under this scrutiny) on the collar of his t-shirt. His lower lip tensing and relaxing, the only movement on a body that could otherwise have been made of stone. A single lock of hair fallen over one eye (don't even think about brushing it away), brown eyes rimmed in red, the gold fleck in the left eye more pronounced than ever.
Brown eyes rimmed in red, and her heart threatens to beat itself right out of her chest. Did I do that?
Memorize the details; they imprint on her vision, emblazon on her mind. White-hot images, silhouettes on a canvas stained with splattered paint. Stencils removed, leaving a void where they lay.
"Breathe."
She hadn't realized that she wasn't. The word—his voice—echoes, bouncing off surfaces and walls and angles, only to be absorbed by the vacuum between them.
-iii-
"I lied."
She's still standing in the doorway, silhouetted by the streetlight behind her. You can't quite make out the features of her face, but you think that maybe, that's okay.
You give no response, and you can see by the way she leans forward just slightly that she's wondering if you heard her. She knows you heard her. You know it before she does, and you anticipate her next step into the room before she takes it.
"I didn't fix everything."
Obviously. Your blood boils again at the thought of… him… touching her, seeing her, calling her name, needing her, hurting her, hurting her, hurting her, and you wonder when she became so stupid as to think that you would need another reminder of that.
"Obviously." This time, you say it out loud.
She wilts at the tone of your voice, and you derive a small satisfaction from it. Only a small one—she still tugs too strongly at your heart for you to take pleasure in her pain.
"I didn't mean him." Blue eyes clouded, shoulders drawn in, folding in on herself. She's second-guessing herself, you know. Should she have come back? You're not going to answer for her.
Silence.
"Me."
Silence. She's not finished.
"I don't know how to fix me."
Silence. What do you say?
This is more than a confession, more than a plea, more than an olive branch.
You gesture towards the door, one hand raised, one small motion. "Close it?" She does.
-iv-
The door slams. "I'm sorry. This isn't fair."
"No," he agrees with a shake of his head, taking the first tiny step towards her.
Her words come out in a torrent, incoherent and rambling, filled with sorry and can't and don't and friend and you and…
He stands, watching it all. Impassive, involved, aloof, drawn in, until her words are spent and her veneer is broken.
"I don't know how to fix me," she repeats, eyes downcast, hands wringing together, swaying slightly. Going to fall, needs to sit, wants to collapse. But he sees—crosses the room in three long strides, takes her elbow, leads her to a chair, sets her gently down, holding a bruised heart and a broken smile in the palm of his hand.
He sits beside her (the only touch is his knee against hers); they breathe the same air, see the same view, hear the same silence, but somehow, they're miles apart, and there's only one way he knows to fix that.
"Talk."
So she does, and she tells him how she doesn't know what she's supposed to feel or who she's supposed to love. How some days, she wants to run away for real, not just in her mind. That she's not supposed to, but sometimes, she likes the life she's living; she wants to experience it all, doesn't want to lose her past, doesn't know where her future's taking her. That she's afraid of being alone. That he devastated her when he left. That she spent three years trying to get over him, only to discover that she's not. And neither is he. That she might want to marry the other guy someday. That she hates being shaken the way she is right now, that she wants something to stay the same, because that might make everything else that's in constant flux easier to handle. That she would take back the past year if she could, that she misses who she was, that reading his book made her feel alive, that she didn't know she could feel so proud of another human being, that she wants to be like him that way.
And he listens—he's good at that now.
-v-
You watch her—crumpled posture, red eyes, splotchy face and all—and you think that she's never looked so beautiful as she does when she's realizing that she doesn't need to have it all together. That it's okay that she has no idea, because, really, who does? And when she looks up, there's a spark in her eyes that was missing when she came in, and you know she'll be okay.
Sparkle, glimmer, glisten, shimmer.
You wish you knew whether her road would lead back to you, but you don't. Maybe, she'll figure it out and go back to the other guy, maybe she won't. Maybe you'll find each other again—you can only hope.
This is more than love, more than romance, more than sex, more than a kiss. This is more than friendship, more than the tears streaking her face, more than the lump in your throat, more than a hug at the door. It's more than missed opportunities, more than missing her, more than what-ifs and maybes and wishes, more than broken hearts and mended futures.
This is who the two of you are, whatever comes of it, for better or worse.